


Tears Are Not Enough

by Historical_Muse



Series: A Knight's Tale [2]
Category: A Knight's Tale
Genre: Descriptions of sexual activity, F/M, M/M, Will's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 02:34:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Historical_Muse/pseuds/Historical_Muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will has to tell Jocelyn the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tears Are Not Enough

Ah, my lady, my lady...

You weep, and I would not have it so – but I cannot change what is in my heart and I would sooner be responsible for a brief instant of pain than for the years of lies and deceit and betrayal that would lie ahead if I were to give in to my midsummer madness and marry you.

I know this isn’t what you want or had hoped to hear, Jocelyn.  But for the love I bear you, I cannot but speak the truth and set you free to find someone who will love you in the way you deserve – in the way I can not.

I see your tears, and hear your bewildered questions – did I _ever_ love you?  Did I _ever_ care for you?  When I said I loved you, did I speak false or true?

Ah, Jocelyn; I spoke true when I said those words to you.  I meant them for as long as it took me to say them and beyond.  But at the back of my mind I think I’ve always known that we were not meant to be together when Autumn came...if I am true to _myself_.

I remember that night after the tournament at Rouen when we danced together.  Just as the teasing challenge of repeating the words he taught me to say to you felt good so the initial rush of excitement fired my blood and made me giddy.  I was there, dancing with you – and you are a graceful, capable partner, Jocelyn.  The physical exuberance of the dance was a gift to me – the sheer pleasure to be found in putting Kate’s lessons into practice and finding that youthful joy and high spirits can lend grace to the poorest of dancers.

And yet, treading a measure with you wasn’t wholly the pleasure I thought it would be.  I should’ve felt as though I had the very world at my feet...and I did not.

Because all I could think of was _him_.

I was there in all my glory after my success at the tournament.  I was there with you, my lady, the focus of every eye and basking in the attention.  I should have had nothing more on my mind – _needed_ nothing more than my success, and your wond’rous beauty.

And all I could think of was the man who’d taught me what to say to you, wishing he were there with me, watching me dance, wondering what dry, waspish comment he might have to make about the way I move my body when I dance.  Knowing that he would tease me and look up at me with a child’s innocence from beneath his eyelashes, nibbling at his lower lip as he gently mocked me.  For with me his barbs are blunted, their tips sheathed as with coronels so that I am not easily wounded.

Yes, I thought of my dearest friends, who would be waiting for me on my return to hear of how well the banquet had gone and if their tutelage had served me well.  But above all, one thing I knew.  _He would be waiting for me..._

When did I know that I wanted him?  _That_ day at Rouen.  When he told me what to say to you at the tournament, he had to repeat it several times before I could take in what he’d said.  At first, I believed he thought it was because I was tongue-tied by love and overcome with the emotion of the occasion, but in truth, it was not.  If I was tongue-tied – if my emotions were in turmoil – then it was because of how it felt when he threw his arm across my shoulder and put his face close to mine, whispering the words to seduce you into my ear.

Suddenly you were the furthest thing from my mind and the tournament ground at Rouen spun to ashes as the warm musky scent of him and the tang of his soft leather coat filled my nostrils; as his hair brushed my skin and his warm breath against my cheek and ear made me shiver.  As his nearness felt like an embrace and I wished he were whispering those words of love to _me_...  _Perhaps angels have no names...only beautiful faces..._   Suddenly feeling that I wanted him to pull me closer, harder...to kiss me, even if it were no more than a brief brush of his lips against my ear.

When he released me, ready to send me on my way, I stepped back and half-stumbled, staring at him, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth agape, not wanting to be abandoned, feeling bereft away from his embrace...

And he knew.  God damn him, but he knew.  Those expressive blue eyes told me that I could not keep – could _never_ keep – secrets from him.

But he didn’t rush me.  Oh no, he didn’t rush me.  Didn’t push me faster than I felt ready to go.  But when I _was_ ready...when I knew he loved me...

I knew for certain that he loved me on the last day of the tournament in London.  If his despairing response to my question about us running away to safety ( _With all the pieces of my heart..._ ) hadn’t been clear enough, then his heart-broken speech to the crowd at the stocks was; I heard the pain and tears in his voice and I knew.  And rejoiced in that knowledge.

It took me a while to realise that he desired me – and yet it shouldn’t have, given that slow, appraising look he gave me when we first met.

And I _do_ desire him, Jocelyn.

I drown in the blue of his eyes and burn in the heat of his mouth.  I bask in the sun of his slow, seductive smile and melt in the glory of his alluring, unhurried swagger, his eyes all irreverent promise and blatant craving.  He’s no Adonis, no gilded statue or painted plaster saint – but when I lie in his arms and he wraps those long limbs and his lanky body around me, I might just as well be in heaven, surrounded as I am by hard, warm flesh and unconditional love.

And when he fucks me, he mounts me like the great, golden cat he sometimes seems to me to be, taking advantage of his greater height and the surprising power of that rangy body as he bears down on me.  He sinks his teeth into the back of my neck, biting and nipping as he presses my hands with his into whatever we’re kneeling on until my wrists ache and my fingers go numb.  The pain and discomfort of all these sensations mixed with the exquisite pleasure of his long, thick cock thrusting into me without mercy takes away every last shred of self-control and – yes – decency that my soul possesses.  I howl and writhe and moan and shove back against him, all but baying at the moon as he takes me and I beg him to fuck me harder... _ah God...sweet Jesus...fuck me till it hurts...to never ever stop..._

And when he comes, his voice hoarse and indescribably erotic as he gasps out my name, I know that I am his and his alone...heart, body, soul...just as he is mine.  That without him I am nothing, and I would be nothing more than a humble thatcher’s son who found himself ennobled.  Wat, Roland, Kate, you...I will love you all until the day I die and I know that you love me.  But none of you love me – _can_ love me – the way _he_ loves me; nor can I love any of you, dear as life to me as you are, as I love my hare-brained poet.

...And that’s why I know that beautiful as you are, Jocelyn, there is nothing – _nothing_ – that you can do...will ever be _able_ to do...that can even begin to compare with the pleasure my beautiful, madcap herald gives me.

And now I must go.  Because he’s waiting for me, my lady Jocelyn.  Waiting for me in a warm bed of straw and furs, fearful that I might choose you over him despite all my promises and protestations of love.  But his fears are groundless.  I could never leave him.  Not now.  Not ever.  Not for _you_.

Ah, no, dry your eyes, my love.  You will love again, and be happy, and I pray that one day, mayhap I will dance at your wedding and rejoice with you.  I will drink to the health of yourself and your husband, and wish for you a long and happy and healthy life.  Oh, my lady; the day will come when you will look back and laugh and wonder that you ever thought you were in love with a rough peasant masquerading as a knight.  Therefore, weep no more, my lady – weep no more.

And now I must leave you.

Because he is waiting for me.

He is waiting...for _me!_

*  *  * End  *  *  *


End file.
